The Robber Barons
by Spirit Bagle of Death
Summary: London, 1811. Kurt Marko, desperate and in debt, blackmails Charles into stealing a diamond necklace from a notorious weapons dealer, using his knowledge of his stepson's homosexuality as leverage. The job sends Charles down a path of crime, tragedy, and passion, into the arms of a railroad tycoon from Berlin with a lot to prove. Non-powered regency AU. Complete, will update soon.


Notes "/.../" indicates thought  
Italics indicate writing or flashback  
"Gaudete" means "rejoice" in Latin.  
"Wer bist du" means ''Who are you'' in German  
''su hermano' means ''your brother'' in Spanish;  
For more information on Russia's attempt to cleanse Poland of it's Jews during the 19th century, please see wiki/History_of_the_Jews_in_Poland#Pogroms_within_the_Russian_Empire. Shout out to ginogollum and her amazing amazing companion art which can be found here. I was so enchanted by her period scenes that I was inspired to write historical fiction for the first time in years! Couldn't have done this without her constant feedback and encouragement.

**Xavier Estate  
Paddington Village, England **

**December the 22****nd****, 1811 **

**7:45pm**

_December the 22__nd__  
Evening Post _

_Dear __Mr. Marko, _

_Due in part to your ringing silence over the past month, I had N M Rothschild &amp; Sons do a little digging here in London. Imagine my surprise, when I discovered the ancillary accounts left to your management were as empty as a whore's promise. _

_Consider this note an expression of my expectations, which are, simply, to make your returns on whatever unauthorized investment you've risked my funds on and place them back into my account exactly one month from now. __Should you fail to deliver what is rightfully mine, I will show you what happens when an arms dealer's expectations are not met. I assure you, my methods of restitution will not be to your taste (or your health)._

_Happy Christmas_

_Klaus Schmidt_

Kurt Marko read the missive for an umpteenth time and had to physically restrain himself from setting it alight with the candelabra before taking a long draught of sherry. The internal voice that had not stopped racing since the morning mail came asked him again, this time dulled with the scuff of exhaustion: How had it come to this?

/Step by step, Kurt. Step by step./

And wasn't that the truth. There was a time when he'd been good at this. A prodigy. He could make money out of nothing and then turn that little into a lot in a single day. Something in him just knew which West Indies voyage would come back with saffron to the gills, or which designer to take a chance on. It was that mind for investment that helped him claw his way up out of a clerkship into the arms of the Xavier widow, and into the sphere of a reluctantly accepting British nobility.

If peerage was water, then money was blood, his merchant background be damned. For a decade or so he'd had his Golden Age, in the mansion in the country with the easily kept wife and the sniveling stepchildren. The carriage and the tenants and the ballroom romps. The tips of the hat and the booty.

But then Charles came of age, and inherited the tenancy income, and all of a sudden his investment capital actually mattered. With wealth and position came his ingenuity's enemy: crippling pressure. Expectations. He began making bad calls. And then Napoleon scared the hell out of all of Europe, making the whole business even more unpredictable, turning industry upside down and disrupting his overseas investments. He started digging holes he couldn't get out of. He carried debt, robbed Peter to pay Paul, and then Schmidt, that foreign oaf, knocked on his door last fall with a huge chunk of cash to invest and a host of distractions, leaving Marko alone with the proverbial piggy bank.

He'd stolen half, plain and simple. The other half he'd gambled to get in on the ground floor of a chemical weapons patent, and lost it all after the factory exploded.

"Sir?"

The butler cut through the debris of his thoughts. "Yes, McCoy, what is it?"

"Young Master's here. Should I have the kitchen bring up tea?"

"No, he can bloody well get some himself if he's thirsty. And don't wake Sharon, either. She's had...a tiring week."

McCoy very professionally did not register shock at the crude vernacular. "Very well, Sir. Just drinks at the side bar then. I'll send him in." 

By the time Charles padded into the parlor, fussing about like a dandy with half-melted snowflakes in his hair, Kurt was more than half-way drunk. This never boded well.

"Kurt whatever is the matter?" Asked the boy-/he's 26, Kurt. Hardly a boy anymore/ no dammit, he was a boy, with his whole damn life figured out for him, handed to him on a silver platter like it had been handed to every Xavier for 15 generations...his fingers twitched around his sherry glass. It was beginning. The old rage fueled by spirits and this blue eyed Puck who was now appraising him like a disapproving uncle despite the age gap.

"Well are you going to answer me or just sit there like a gargoyle? I had to take the express carriage from Oxford and it was not a comfortable journey."

"Sit down, Charles."

"Alright..." Charles first sauntered over to the bar and poured himself a brandy. Kurt's mood darkened further. Sharon was always fond of commenting that Charles's father had been partial to brandy. /Him and every landed gentleman in the area, you dumb cow./ "Now what is it? What was so urgent? I planned on coming home Friday for Christmas, why did you need me today?"

"We have a problem."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Interesting. We try so hard not to share much of anything, let alone our problems. Are you sure this isn't just your problem?"

The glass in his hand almost shattered. Control, Kurt. Control. "Yes, quite sure. Do you remember the man we went to the Touton club with in London last fall? Mr. Schmidt?"

The boy nodded. He'd always had a good memory. Too good, at times. "Yes that dreadfully frightening Hanoverian. I had the feeling that whole evening he was going to pull something awful. Why, what's he done?"

"Other than play both sides during these problems with the French, nothing much out of order." Kurt answered. "No Charles, it's what I've done. I've lost his money, I'm sorry to say. And if we don't get it back it will be the worse for us."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm sorry to remind you, but _I'm _not an investment banker, and I've got 10,000 a year. So, as I said. Your pro-OOFH."

It had happened so quickly. He'd seen red and then his body, that large and cumbersome instrument, had moved, and the glass and the fist had made contact with the pink of Charles's chilled cheekbone. And then the red, the blood was real, across his face. Across his own fist. No going back now. No more pleasantries. The boy hadn't moved, except to hold his injured cheek and remove bits of broken glass absently from his lap, but he could see it; the old tremble across his shoulders. The one that had gotten the precocious, fatherless child to shut up and do as he was told for all these years, no exceptions.

"Our problem, Charles. Because I'll make it yours if you don't cooperate. I owe this man 25,000, and he's no British bank. When he says he will make restitution, he's not talking about debtor's prison, which I'm sure you wouldn't mind for your old step daddy. He speaks of a more primal vengeance. Whatever you may think of me, Boy, know that this man is an animal, and you are going to be my key to feeding him."

Charles glared. He'd given up on dabbing at the blood. His whole body was taught like a bow string. "How do you mean?"

Kurt answered almost too quickly. The idea had been brewing all day, and it was a relief to get it out into the open. "Do you still do your fancy parlor tricks?"

"...Yes. I still study the illusionary arts."

"Splendid." Kurt reached into the pocket of his suit, and pulled out a decorative invitation. "We've been invited to Schmidt's gauche New Years money grab ball. Word is his wife, Ms. Frost, has an unparalleled collection of fine jewels. You will go to this ball, and you will knick the most expensive rock you can find during one of your shows. Then come straight here, and I'll contact the fence. We'll pay the ape's debt with his own wife's trinkets and to hell with him. It's poetic, I think."

"..._What!? _You must be unhinged, to think I'd go along with such a thing." Smartly, he stood and put the chair between them as he said this. "No, I'm not a scared nine year old any more Kurt. I'm going back to Oxford first thing in the morning and I don't want to hear another word about this. A jewel heist. Really-"

"Sit down you goddamn pillow biter. Sit down _now, _or all of London will be using those words in relation to you by tomorrow's afternoon post."

Charles, who had been halfway out the door, froze like he'd been struck again. After a long few seconds, he turned back around, movements mechanical, pale as death. He did not sit, but he did not leave. Kurt elaborated.

"That's what I thought. Let's talk about problems that aren't mine, Charles. Let's talk about that choir boy I caught halfway up your arse last year, what was his name-Hiddleston, I think, Thomas Hiddleston."

The boy visibly flinched at the name. He seemed to get ten years older in a single minute at it's mention.

"You're not the only one who remembers things, Charles. And you're damned lucky he didn't black mail you-"

"He would never." Charles said quietly.

"But everyone has their price." Kurt stood up and invaded Charles's space, using his height to his advantage. "I may be stone broke but I bet I have enough to turn a fairy against another fairy. And even if I don't. All it would take would be an obscene letter scrawled in his name, naming you. That's all it takes, in your circles, to ruin a man. You can kiss your teaching job goodbye, you're a naturalist for Christ sakes, and there innt nothing natural about what you do. Forget your magic shows. No one would let you within a mile of their front doors. And this is you getting off easy."

He was so close to the boy now that he could feel Charles's panic-breathing against his face, could practically hear his heart pounding in his chest. /Run, rabbit, run./ "Could be they have a trial. Could be they call witnesses. And there I'd be, a reluctant but solemn witness for the prosecution, doing his sworn duty for England by naming you a _fekking queer. _What do you think, Charles? Could you survive two years hard labor? Could Sharon survive the shame, do you think? Old bird's a few years shy of it as it is, the way her liver's going, I'd say this'd finish her. No matter, though. There's lot's of other queers in prison, I hear. Good company. Your arsehole would be doing most of the work, but life can't all be fun and games-"

"_Alright." _Charles rasped. "Alright. Stop. Just stop...please." A long, shuddering breath. When he finally collected himself enough to meet Kurt's eyes, they were wet. "I'll do what you ask. But I'll do it my way. Leave me to it, do you hear? And stay away from the ball. You've already made _everything _so much worse."

Kurt smirked, and backed away. "Deal. I'm not in for parties much anyway. Think I'll go moose hunting. Joyeux Anée and all that, Pup. Now get the hell out of my sight." 

The sound of Charles's heavy trudge up the steps was the best moment of Kurt Marko's day. 

**The Next Day...**

"My boy. My beautiful boy...what day is it? S'not Yuletide yet...I've got such a headache. Would you be a dear and hand me my glass? I just need a sip and I'll be right as rain."

Charles sat at the edge of his mother's bed, and handed her the long-ago cooled Hot Toddy without comment. He'd meant to leave as soon as possible, shaken as he was by his arrival, but Kurt had gone out on some all-day errand and the snow was coming down hard. Then his mother's bell rang downstairs, and he'd gotten an unexpected lump in his throat when he realized it had been nearly a year since he'd spoken to her, so averse was he to the estate.

He'd decided to bring up her luncheon, Marko be damned.

"No mum, not yet. But I'm afraid I can't stay for the annual dinner. I've got some illusionist work to do in London and I'd like to check in on Raven."

The real illusion, he thought privately, was that he managed to sound perfectly calm. It was a small mercy, and the only one he could afford her.

She pretended to be crestfallen, but deep down he knew that he, with his father's eyes and his constant bruises, was a reminder of what she had lost, and distasteful proof of her present mistakes.

"Oh...that's a shame. We love having you here." At this, she reached up and ran a shaky hand across his swollen cheekbone. "What happened there, darling?"

"I slipped on some ice." He supplied, and managed a smile.

"Because if Kurt's hit you again, y-you can't take him too seriously. He just gets in these tempers, but he loves you. I know he does-"

"Mother." He interrupted, a slightly harder edge to his voice, sharpened by the involuntary mental slide show of broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, myriad scar tissue, and the never-quite-right-again nose. He smoothed her disheveled blonde hair, and fluffed her pillow. "I slipped on some ice."

"Well..." she practically whispered, draining her tepid drink in one swig. "You need to be more careful. I worry, you know. About both of you-yes even Raven, though I know I'm not supposed to care. I do care..." She was working herself into a state, tears already building at the corners of her eyes, making her face puffier and redder than usual. "It's a horrid thing for society to ask of me, to wash my hands of my own child. I don't care what she's done...I miss my family."

The lump in his throat returned for a brief moment. He leaned forward and embraced her. "I know, Mother." But he stopped just shy of saying "So do I," for his family portrait did not match hers anymore. She had run from the pain of Brian's death and retreated on the rebound. A dark, cruel part of him thought she was a coward, but then, with Damocles's Sword hanging above his head from Marko's slim watch chain, who was he to judge? "Don't worry, I'll send your love. Maybe one day, if you feel...well enough, to visit London, we'll all have a meal and catch up."

"Yes..." Sharon muttered, thin fingers gripping her empty glass in growing anxiety, adjacent soup untouched. "I really do feel under the weather lately."

Later, as his carriage wended its way through the sleet-slick streets of Paddington, his mind preyed upon him. He thought of Thomas, lost to the rank and file of the army, unable, with this damned war, even to get a Christmas furlough and unlikely to want to see Charles if he did, so full of shame for his nature was he. He kicked himself for not realizing that Kurt would resort to this, a fresh new low, and bit down self loathing at his own rolling over and taking of it. He considered his stepfather's rough plan, not even a plan really, more like the half-mad ravings of a man drowning in spite, who saw him as a way to buy time before his _real _solution occurred to him.

"It's a strange thing..." he said to himself, watching his breath fog the grey Vermier of the carriage window. "To know in your heart the mind of your enemy. That man wants me dead." 

But something in him...the same something that disdained his mother as well as loved her, that had reached out and took Thomas because he wanted him, that longed to fight Kurt when he pounced, told him this:

/So what. I will succeed. I will do this thing, and walk away triumphant./

"TERMINAL STOP. TERMINAL STOP. OUT SIR AND BE ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS."

Charles tipped the driver despite his brusqueness, and hailed a hansom cab in the gloaming. He endured the chatty baroness and her insipid offspring's conversation for the half hour it took them to get to Drury Lane, then absented himself without a backward glance. The ticket window was already burdened with a considerable queue, and while he waited he read the newly-pasted poster on the wall: 

HEAR YE, HEAR YE! SPECIAL YULETIDE EVENT AT THE THEATRE ROYAL!  
We, the Sisterhood Company of All-Female Thespians, invite you to take in a raucous performance of LYSISTRADA, with the salacious LADY MYSTIQUE in the title role! Come take a break from your temporal obligations this Christmas season and watch the queen of the grecian quim plot with Calonice (portrayed by MISS CANDICE FERGUSON, THE ORIENTAL WONDER) to stop the Peloponnesian war using their feminine wiles! December the 23rd, 24th, and 25th, each evening at 8PM. LIMITED PRODUCTION! THE EASILY SCANDALIZED NEED NOT ATTEND!

/Oh for Pete's sake./ Charles thought, and, when his turn finally came, bought the "Gentleman's Ticket," which entitled him to one of the renovated opera boxes as well as a "tantalizing back stage interview with the Lady herself."

He found his place inside. The new theatre was impressive. They had built a third balcony while somehow still retaining the intimate nature of the space. The lighting was strategic and cozy, and for this performance, paper lanterns hung from the painted woodwork, casting an eerie yellow glow over the crowd below him. The buildings painted in the backdrop had a foreign feel to them-yet another one of the Sisterhood's revolutionary ideas, to set plays in dissonant exotic settings, thereby underscoring the material's timelessness.

"Raven whatever is humanity to do with you?" Charles said to himself with a half-smile as the lights dimmed, indicating that the show was about to begin.

Despite his discomfort with her often risqué material and his real fears that something awful would happen to her eventually, in this crowded and ruthless city where she enjoyed no society connections, he was extremely proud of his little sister. She had stood up to Kurt early and often. Although she had no hope of fighting him, she was a master of concealment, hiding herself in coat racks, cellars, and even the privy once to escape his wrath. She ran away the first chance she could and took only what money was her own, leaving Charles a secret note explaining her plans to join the new all women's theater company. At first, he'd feared the worst. He dressed as a vagabond and slummed it for weeks looking for her, half-certain she'd turn up in a brothel or the morgue. When he finally did find this Sisterhood she raved about performing small West End productions, they'd quarrelled terribly, for he had not believed in her and kept citing her ruined reputation.

Then the Sisterhood blew up, first for it's counter-cultural novelty and then just because they were plain extraordinary. Raven became it's de-facto leader and one of the most sought-after character actresses in London. She was currently in talks with the patent theatres to obtain the right to portray dramatic characters and he knew she would succeed in this, as she seemed to land on her feet in all of her endeavors.

Her first appearance was breathtaking and off-putting all at once. Charles settled in as she strode out, head high with fierce eyes to join the tattooed Oriental woman portraying Caldonice center stage. Both women were clad scandalously in sheer all white kimono-like garments, a marriage of East and West, thighs visible and bodies free for mobility.

"My dear Lysistrata, just what is this matter you've summoned us women to consider. What's up? Something big?"

"Very big."

"Is it stout too?"

Raven smiled and looked out at the audience, utterly fearless. "Yes, indeed - both big and stout."

"What? And the women still haven't come?

"It's not what you suppose; they'd come soon enough for that."

Charles laughed in spite of 26 years of breeding telling him to do otherwise, and forgot about his troubles in the performance. He forced himself, however, to forgo the magic of immersion during the last five minutes of the chorus's epilogue in order to beat the crowd, and made his way down the narrow wooden stairs below stage right into the cellar system, which served as the production team's temporary living space. He managed to get into the torch-lit warren of makeshift changing stations, wardrobe racks, and dubious bedsits without incident but was soon stopped by a large man in a severe yellow tailcoat that barely spanned his prodigiously muscled chest. His hands too, were bizarre, for his knuckles were unnaturally gnarled with what looked to be bone spurs, and gave off the impression of old tree branches. His expression was not friendly.

"That's far enough, Bub. No one likes an over eager john. Let's see your ticket."

Charles blanched. "Oh goodness no I'm not a john...here, I think you'll see this is all in order..."

He handed over his ticket stub, at which the man spared a passing glance, unimpressed. "Rav...the Lady Mystique is my sister, and I have an urgent need to speak to her in private."

At this, the man laughed. "Ohhh your sister, huh? That's a good one. And I'd have to be Lord Byron to swallow a fever dream like that. What did you think, you'd spend your tea and crumpets money on a little romp with a class act? You're not bad looking, I'll give you that, but something tells me those breeches of yours aren't too tight for a reason-"

"Logan, down boy, who're ya teasin' nigh?"

The pair turned to see Caldonice leaning lazily against the wall, pink with the exertion of the bow-out. Charles tipped his hat, and pointed to the ticket in Logan's hand.

"Ah, Caldonice, I mean Candice, if I remember correctly, I was just telling this chap here that I have a need to speak with my-"

"Yer sister, yeah, I 'eard, goodness yerrah peach. I think even if yeh were 'er real brother she wouldn' mind givin' it to you, would ya, darling? OI, MYSTIQUE?"

To his immense relief, Charles heard Raven's throaty alto rise up from the gathering din around the bend. "I'm coming, Christ Blink, keep your knickers on."

Charles, in a desperate attempt to redirect further conversation, voiced his question. "Blink?"

Blink nodded, and pointed to the tattoos around her right eye. "Tha's right, these'r real. Prison's a tough racket. Blink the Chink's wot they calls me down 'ere, but I don' mind so's long as they keep payin' me, eh?"

"I...suppose there's some symbiosis to that arrangement, yes-Oh, Raven. Thank GOD you're here!"

Almost the minute he caught sight of her face, he stepped forward and embraced her, surprising even himself with the strength of his emotion. He could feel the bouncer's strong hands trying to pull him off, but they paused, confused and unsure of their duty, when Raven's arms came up to hug him back.

"Thank God..." he kept saying into the crook of her neck, feeling half mad and fighting back an overwhelming sense of panic, relief, and fear he hadn't realized he was carrying so heavily. He felt incredibly grateful to her when she stroked his hair and responded,"Woah there, Charlie. Everything's ok. Back off you sods, he's my brother for real! Yeah I don't tell you everything and I wonder why, with friends like I have! You'd devour him with the mutton, wouldn't you?"

"I would." Blink dead-panned, and then everyone, including Charles, was laughing once more.

After a round of introductions, Raven and Blink changed into street clothes and then blessedly played truant from the gaggle of fans who had paid to see them, using the bouncer (Logan's) tendency to clear a path in his wake to sneak out the Brydge street side of the theatre. A quarter of an hour later saw Charles opposite the ladies on a rough-hewn bench at the aptly named "Hangman's Noose" pub waiting for a pint, and casting sidelong glances at Logan, who was standing silent guard at their private booth's entrance.

"You were both very good tonight." He began obliquely, feeling drained to the core and out of sorts that he had to begin this conversation with an audience not related to him. "Truly. I'd always viewed that play as veritable pornography, but your production revealed something else. I left feeling positively pacifistic, but I wonder if I could make a request now that will be taken as decidedly hostile ...can Raven and I have a moment alone?"

Blink snorted in a very unladylike way. "D'awww. Shy li'le peach!"

Raven's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't go anywhere alone in this city and neither should you with that poncey outfit on. You'll be robbed before dawn. Blink's a true sister and there isn't anything you can't say in front of her that you can in front of me."

Blink beamed and accepted one of the pints that Logan had carried to the table. "And I don't care." He grunted, before retaking his post at the door.

"...He's good too." Raven amended.

Charles took a fortifying swig of beer, then quickly relayed Kurt's predicament and plan, focusing on the wood grain of the table and Raven's polished royal blue fingernails against her flaggon.

"Hah! And did you tell him where to stick it? Or where your giraffes stick it? I don't know I hope you made a naturalism joke, he's such an ape."

"I can't." he answered. The wood grain began to sway under his unblinking scrutiny.

"Why ever not? Haven't you grown a prick since getting that post at Oxford? Christ we're practically neighbors now, the infamous Xaviers-you don't even live there anymore-"

"I can't because he found out about Thomas and me and he's going to do me in if I don't go through with it." Charles blurted, then wiped a hand across his face and finished his drink in one gulp.

There was a beat of silence. Then Blink let out a huff of air. "I may've never seen the innards of a school but I'm guessin Thomas weren't only a friend. Or 'e were a good friend, if ya catch me drift."

"Real astute of you, Blink." Raven said quietly, and elbowed the other girl in the ribs. "Oh Charles. He's a right crusty old _bastard _for using that against you when all of London knows he's got a black book full of mistresses!"

"Yes, well." Charles mumbled, and stole a sip from her flaggon. "Bastard or no, I'm guilty as sin of what he says, and if it goes to trial...I just...I couldn't do that to Tom. They'd shoot him for the accusation alone, the way the war's going, or he'd shoot himself, more likely. It's not fair to him, not when he never made me any promises. Not when what happened was so...inconsequential."

Raven eyed him with the parody of their mothers' milky stare-fierce and sharp where Sharon's was listless. He squirmed under those eyes. "So are you thinking you're going to do it? You're going to steal for that man? _Could_ you even do it?"

Charles inclined his head slowly. "That's just it-I believe I could, strictly speaking. Rather easily. My sleight of hand work is exceptional and I have the ball invitation. I've been thinking about it nonstop since yesterday, and the thought of stealing from a bloody arms dealer is far less abhorrent to me than putting Tom's life in danger. But I'm scared, Raven. I...I don't know if I could manage it alone."

Out of nowhere, Logan huffed a laugh and turned to face them from across the room. "If you're serious about this Bub, I sure's hell hope you don't do it alone. Sure maybe you'll get the jewelry, but keeping it? Avoiding suspicion? Fencing a hot piece? That's the pro boxer's ring. Soft handed muffin like you is in over his head. By the way..."

He walked over, plopped down next to Charles in the booth, and gave him a heavy pat on the back that nearly knocked the wind out of him. "I don't care who you bugger or who's buggering you. I'm a 'mind your own' kinda bloke, and to tell you the truth I far prefer the idea of Mystique's queer old gentleman brother than I do to some richie rich who looks like Parisian royalty or some shite trying to bugger _her." _

Raven guffawed and reached across the table to caress Logan's deformed hands. "My darling, you have reached the heights of romance, truly."

"Well that's a relief." Charles said, and meant it.

"Point is," Logan continued. "This step father of yours sounds dangerous. And no love's lost on this Schmidt fellow. I say, go through with it, but pick your mark careful-like. 25,000 is a lot, but there are pieces worth more. Make a profit, appease the ape, and then you should probably disappear for a while. Who knows when he'll try to trot out the gross indecency charge again. Unless you just want to skip all that and I can go down there now and kick his teeth in."

Blink blinked. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, tha's the most I've 'eard ya talk all season. Yeh sure yer arright? Not got a touch a the typhoid?"

"No," Raven responded for him, and rubbed his hands. Charles felt something in his chest clench. His sister was in love...when had that happened? It had been a long time, too long, since he'd sought her out. "Just a little arrow wound from a wee babe, isn't that right, darling?"

"Eck, spare me, have mercy!" Blink said, and stuck her finger down her throat. "Anyway, I know yerra cozy threesome but I can' resist a sob story. 'Sme Irish blood, I suspec'. Just so happens I know the wifey's lady's maid. Mrs. Frost hassa bit of a reputation amongst the help, and it innt good. She'll probably turn up at the Christmas fête tomorrow. If there's money to be made, she'll be game."

Charles turned back towards Logan. "My stepfather wanted to arrange the fence, but if you had any connections in that regard, I'm sure I could convince him to use your man. It further removes him from the crime, and to be honest I don't think he holds out much hope that this will work anyway. He was half in his cups when he proposed it, so he shouldn't be too hard to put off. We could all split the extra money."

Logan nodded. "I know a guy. But let's wait and see what the lady's maid says. If she's in, this'll be a whole helluva lot easier."

Raven grinned and clapped Charles on the shoulder. "Looks like you're spending Christmas with us, dear brother. I'll have wardrobe set you up with a costume, don't you worry."

Charles swallowed hard. "A costume?"

"Quite right!" she said, and handed Logan some coins, who left to pay the bill. "All us theater people get together at the Black Bird Stage for a masquerade Christmas Eve. It's tradition."

"Thanks but can't I just hole up in your rooms? I don't feel much like a party. At least not until the obligatory scene of the crime..."

"I won't hear of it." Raven said firmly.

"Neevah will I! Don't yeh know theater parties are a dandy's playground? I thoughtchyah lived in this city!"

"Blink's right." Raven rejoined. "Might as well commit the crime you're being punished for. And anyway, I'll wager it's been ages since you've had a bit of fun."

With that, Charles could not justly argue. 

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

Gaudete, Gaudete!  
I am absinthe

and I have found a host.

His soft veins favor

my anisse flavored chaos.

His limbs twitch,

as I pillage them, and leave him with

the sensation of tulips, of dragon's tongues

tonguing his exposed flesh.

Gaudete Gaudete!

I am absinthe.

My host shall know the meaning of the wilderness

for he hides tonight behind it's mask.

His sister gave him a rat's face to wear.

His culture gave him his overcloak of shame.

Only his saphirre eyes tell the story of him,  
of me.

He skirts the edges of the party,

holding me in a cheap stone cup like a lifeline.

He knows, as I know, that poisons are often

Secret Elixirs.

Gaudete Gaudete!  
I am absinthe,

and he is falling fast into my arms.

The music is a profane amalgamation,

of Irish drummers, French carolers, and English bawds.

He doesn't want to feel it seize his body,

but it, I, they, do.

And then the rat has seen the cat.

Gaudete Gaudete!

I am absinthe,

and I, he, we, will not be ignored.

The rat surveys the cat,

and dreams of being eaten.

He reaches out and paws black velvet.

He says some politeness to cover it-

But the cat paws back.

They are dancing.

Gaudete Gaudete!  
I am absinthe,

and we are being had in the rafters

still in our mask.

The cat's gray eyes are looking for something.

The rat opens wider, and answers with his nature.

But cats will indulge in their curiosity;

"Perfektion, Wer bist du-wer bist du?"

Gaudete Gaudete...

I am Charles.

I shake my head and choose not to answer.

I let him satisfy everything but his desire to know.

My body glows.

...and then I watch him go.

Only then do I remove the rat's face,

and weep softly for the overcloak

I must wrap around me tighter in it's place.

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

_**Monday, December the 30**__**th **__** 1811 **_

_**8:15 in the morning **_

_**My Rooms in Whitechapel**_

_ It's been three weeks since I arrived in London. I planned to return to Berlin a fortnight ago, having completed the agreed-upon collaboration with Mr. Blenkinshop on his locomotive engine, but John's taken a liking to me and begged me to stay until after the holidays. I reminded him that for me, the holidays had already passed, and I, a stranger in a strange land, had lit my Hannukah candles in gloomy solitude. At that the man showed genuine remorse, and took it upon himself to take me under his wing, so to speak, so that I might make society friends and forge connections. _

_ My general temperment rebels against these efforts, but in truth, I am eager to expand my business overseas, and continue learning about new ways of manipulating metal. The English, though a fussy and prim-mannered lot who never say what they mean, are on the verge of something great here. There is real innovation happening, and I would not be surprised if the end of the decade saw the entire Island run by steam and clockwork. _

_ Furthermore, I can't deny that of late I have enjoyed some diverting activities, though I blush now, to put them in print. One chance meeting in the West End particularly has occupied my thoughts. John, ever the social butterfly, took me to some artist's Christmas masque. I was intrigued, Christmas always having seemed a somewhat Pagan and Druid parsing of traditions, and so I got into the spirit of things, even renting out a simple cat's mask from a local shop. I expected to do some drinking and oblige the plainer girls in a dance or two. The guild parties in Berlin are so austere that I didn't expect to meet anyone who shared my interests. _

_ And yet, meet someone I did. How to describe him? My gift is not for words, but I shall try. He wore an ugly rodent's costume, but even this could not conceal his beauty. I am not one to climb the balconies, not even for those boys who stir my blood, but when he made his interest known, I felt...like I would do anything for him. He was bold and silent and vaguely desperate, but not for carnality, exactly. He seemed touch starved rather than love starved, and lonely for simple congress. When we found a quiet place, and I began to sate that hunger in him, his whole body warmed to me like a candle, impossibly delicate and right-feeling under my ministrations. _

_ I had not planned on progressing as far as we did, especially considering his strange aversion to speech. I can count the amount of times I have entered another person on two hands, but even though it was mad, and too-fast, and I do not even know his name, I have become obsessed with the memory it. Sometimes, I even dream-  
_

_''_Erik? ERIK! Open up man, my hansom got stuck in the mud and I nearly clubbed to death a couple of pickpockets on Dorset street just so I could beat the morning post!''

Erik swore in German under his breath, but replaced the quill in the ink well. He greatly disliked being interrupted in the early hours of the morning, for lately that was the only time of day that was entirely his own. But John Blenkinshop _did _sound rather excited. Sure enough, no sooner had Erik cracked open the door than John rushed in, blowing on his hands for warmth, flamboyant blonde curls falling ludicriously every which way across his face. He was in his best tail coat and breeches, and his pockets bulged with haphazardly tied together paperwork. 

''John whatever has you so put out?" Erik asked, and was about to ring the concierge's bell for tea, but John shook his head violenty, spraying Erik in the face with melted snow.

''Nevermind that, no time for that, not thirsty! And I'm not put out, I'm overjoyed! Here, take a look.''

Erik carefully unrolled the wad of papers John thrust into his hands, subtly shifting his body to block the desk that still featured his opened journal. A quick scan revealed the key to his colleague's elation.

''You got the patent."

''WE got the patent, my friend! WE got the patent! Oh happy day, Christ above!"

Erik smirked in response and re-rolled the document before holding his stalk of sealing wax above his desk candle for a few moments. When it was sufficiently warm, he removed it, let it drip onto the paper crease, and used his signet ring to seal the documents neatly before returning them to the inventor.

''But really, was there ever any doubt? You know you were years ahead of anyone else with your rack and pinion design-''

John waved this away and collapsed atop the parlor's only ottoman, which was far too low to the ground for him to look like anything but an anthropomorphic frog. Still he sat, knobby knees pointing absurdly up to the ceiling. ''Oh well, one never knows. London's a sample tray of 'new' right now, and anyway we both know I'd never have been able to manage it so quickly without your help. I'm a dreamer with deep pockets but you, Erik, you're a genius who understands the cogs and springs in things. Do you comprehend what this could mean for us?"

Erik laughed in spite of himself. ''Not really, beyond the sum you've already paid me. Do enlighten.''

John grinned from ear to ear. ''We can finish her! Finally, we can finish the Salamanca!''

''Now wait just a minute, John. _You _can finish her, but my apprentice can't run my shop in Berlin forever. Aleksander is a good blacksmith, but he's not-''

''Oh come now, Erik! Employ that vast imagination of yours in your own future! Blacksmiths are a tuppence a loaf, but engineers like you? You'd be wasted in the Holy Roman Empire.''

With his habitual quickness, John got up and actually grabbed Erik's lapels, a slightly manic look to his holly colored eyes. ''You belong here, man, where the change is happening. Think of how proud your mother would be, if she could see you now. Barley thirty, an immigrant twice over and a Jew, on the cutting edge of the commercial steam industry. You can make something of yourself here! England's progressed past prejudice. The stuffed shirts just need a little time to get used to New Money, Jew and gentile alike, but after a season or two I'm certain you'll be considered one of us.''

Erik tensed slightly at the mention of his long dead family. He'd told John his tale of woe after one too many pints and a few of the unusually perceptive man's probing questions. He hadn't been sure if he regretted it ever since. Still, he had to admit,...his late mother and John would probably be in agreement. ''It's a bit early in the day for penny-dreadful drama.'' Erik dead-panned. ''I'll think on it, will that satisfy you?''

John's face lit up once more. ''For now old chap, for now! Oh I can see it clear as day-'' He actually made an arch in the air with his hand. ''We'll cover this island in steel cobwebs! From London to Middleton to Leeds! Listen; be about your business now, but meet me in Trafalgar Square after luncheon. We're going to celebrate properly, in a way I think you'll enjoy.''

Erik was about to protest, but suddenly, like a shot of sulphur to an artery, his mind put forward the image of the smooth-limbed youth in the rat's mask, naked and gasping below him, arse tight and perfect around his prick in a way he'd never felt before, impossibly blue eyes rolling behind his costume and looking at anything but his face...

That fête, as he'd just penned, had been at John's urging, who knew a set of stage technicians through his inventing work.

''...Very well, very well.'' He heard himself saying, sure that the warmth he was feeling in his face was visible. ''See you after luncheon.''

He spent the morning answering correspondance and running errands on High Street. Aleksander would take care of the day to day at the shop just fine, but as for the books and the by-mail consultations, all of that fell to him. He was loathe to trust a solicitor with his accounts, as he'd heard one too many a story of skimming off the top, or condescending gentiles thinking they could talk down to, as John put it, ''New Money.'' Eventually, he finished his journal entry, even though the vivid memory of his anonymous tryst had embarrassed him and put him off self reflection for the day. It was a promise he continued to keep to his mother. He would never forget the way she clutched his small hand a mere half hour before formally making him an orphan, and charged him with the monumental task of remembering:

_''Erik, my Erik...you will not have an easy life. I think sometimes our people will always be running. Until the very end, when God reveals to all the world that we are chosen. Bear witness, my son, do you hear me? Bear witness to the hardships in your life, and be proud of who you are.'' _

He had been eleven when she died of consumption, contracted on a steamer fleeing from war-wracked Poland. And she had been right. Life in the orphanage had not been easy. He'd had to grow up fast, get strong and remain that way, and use his brain. He thanked God every day for three things; his faith, his brain, and his hands. They were what plucked him from the rabble and placed him in the first ever Jewish Free School in Berlin. They were what started and maintained his business. They were what had moved John to write him in the first place, appealing to his expertise after reviewing the entries in a bridge design contest.

''But it's my prick that's defining me now.'' Erik muttered to himself ruefully in the hansom cab as it wended its way towards Trafalgar at half past five in the evening.

It wasn't hard to spot John, shuffling from foot to foot under Big Ben and fiddling with his top hat. He greeted him and let him lead them down a series of narrow alleyways. Gradually, crisp black coats and hats became homespun shirts, thick workman's boots, and soot-stained faces.

''John, what fix are you getting us into this time?''

John gave him the grin that usually meant he'd secretly planned on whores, opium, or a party full of loose actors. ''Now now don't be that way! You said you did a bit of boxing in Berlin, yeah?''

Erik nodded cautiously, and followed him through the back door of a nondiscript brownstone. The corridor was pitch dark, but his nostrils were immediately assaulted with the smell of sweat, beer, and lamp wick. ''Not formally, but I had some ring-in-the-dirt work. Took some odds. ...Why?'' 

After a few yards the corridor opened up into a dimly lit lobby area packed to the gills with shirtless, bloody-faced men, inn girls, painted ladies, ticket rippers, and sloshed spectators. Makeshift bar stalls sprouted haphazardly every which way he looked, selling various home brewed spirits and street food.

''Well I thought maybe, if you were home sick, you know...'' John began, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary. ''We could take in a few rounds. Come on then, I've got ring side seats and I hardly ever use them. The missus doesn't approve.''

''Missuses don't tend to, no.'' Erik shouted over the crowd, thinking again of his blue eyed chimera.

''LAAYY'IEES ANNN' GEN'L'MEN! PUT YER HANNNNDS TOGETHUR FER LONDON'S VERY OWN LOGAN GUY NEESE, BETTER KNOWN TO YA ALL AS...THE WoOoOoOOOLVERINNNEEE!''

Erik passed the next hour happily. John, never able to sit in one place for too long, kept getting up to visit the refreshment stands and have a smoke. On one of his trips he'd found an old woman who was selling piping hot gluevine, and thoughtfully bought two pints for his friend. Erik drained them quicker than he meant and watched round after round of ''the Wolverine,'' a formidable fighter who only moderately relied on his mutated hands, utterly crush his challengers. Despite the rather palpable lack of tension, he found himself fasinated by the technical skill the fighters brought into the ropes, and remembered fondly his teenage gang back at the Free School. He, Magda, and a boy named only Toad, all orphans on scholarship, were always getting into scraps. But he couldn't pretend he had ever been this good.

''John, did you see that evasion?" Erik asked. ''And I think that man's absorbed six head shots. He hasn't even taken a knee! John...?''

When his usually gregarious friend didn't answer he turned, and followed John's suddenly dark gaze across the ring. A slight gentleman in a flamboyant fur cape and charcoal gray suit had just begun to descend the stairs, trailed by a taller, more formidable man in an ostentatious bright red jacket and breeches. His goatee was not the fashion and his hair was incredibly thick-Erik was reminded of the cossaks that used to patrol their slum in Warsaw, and a chill went down his spine. Still, despite the man in red's eye-catching apperance, it was plain that the other fellow, with the mean shifty eyes, was the 'man in charge.'

''You see those two, over there?" John finally said.

''Yes, they stand out don't they?.'' Erik murmured.

''That's Klaus Schmidt and his enforcer, Asa Zell. He pretends he's a land rich someone-or-another in the Empire, but everybody knows he sells guns without all the hoop-jumping usually required by legitimate contractors. No one knows where he's based or how he makes them. I heard a joke once that _he _was a gun, and just sired a lot of children. Anyway, he came up from Hanover last spring after unloading all his best stock on Napolean, and has been worming his way into my circles somehow ever since. Gives me the creeps, he does. Crooked as a snipes tail, make no mistake! Oh bloody hell..."

''What?'' Erik said, but couldn't take his eyes off the crimson clad thug. Zell was a Russian name.

''He's seen me. Devil's tits in an Easter Basket, he's coming over-God damn my resting niceface!''

''Your what?''

But John didn't have time to elaborate. Mr. Schmidt had reached the aisle within earshot, and was soon adjusting his cape archly to offer his hand. Erik took his and Asa's when offered, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Their sheer proximity was unnerving.

''Johnathan. I didn't think I'd see you here. That Logan fellow's an oddity, is he not?''

His English was perfect, but for a slight Hanoverian harshness to his consonants that Erik knew well. John gave what Erik had begun to recognize as his ''society smile,'' (not nearly as creased in the corners), and inclined his head. ''Indeed, indeed. Most impressive. I don't believe you've met my colleague, Mr. Erik Lehnsherr. He's from your neck of the woods as it happens.''

Erik gave a tight bow and never took his eyes off of either of them. ''Pleased to meet you both.''

Schmidt suddenly stepped a foot closer and scrutinized his face with those strange, beady eyes.

''Lehnsherr...Lehnsherr...you're not indigenous Empire, no. That name and those long 'e's of yours. They've a foreign tint to them. Are you Russian, perhaps?''

Erik's jaw tightened. ''Not at all. Good ear though; the family name used to be Lehnovitz. My parents were Polish. They...emmigrated. In the nineties.'' At that last, he turned his gaze to Asa, and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.

The man in red connected the dots, and very conspicuously wiped the hand he'd previously offered against his loud, red lapel. ''You are a _Jew?''_ He hissed, and was about to say something else, but Klaus interrupted.

''Now now Asa. When in Rome-or Britian-it's best to play by their rules.'' His lips pulled back in a disingenuous grin. ''So John, this is the secret disciple you've been hiding?''

John, bless his heart, raised himself to his full height (rather short) and puffed out his chest. ''There's no secret here, Schmidt. I'm proud to call Erik my friend and associate. Why, just today, we secured a very important patent on the rack and pinion engine-''

''Your locomotive, yes.'' Schmidt smarmed. ''Delightful little project. Erik, you must be quite proud of yourself. I've always said your people have their places, and pottering away under a train is certainly one of them.''

Erik briefly considered taking a page out of the Wolverine's book and throwing a punch, but decided he didn't want to embarrass John after his show of solidarity. Instead, he settled for the most acrid tone he could muster. ''I can think of a few other people just now who'd be right at home under a train of mine. Perhaps as we expand, they'll get their chance.''

To his surprise, Schmidt erupted with laughter so loud that nearby spectators shot their group quizzical looks. He then turned his attention to John. ''Well, I don't want to keep you, you're clearly celebrating your big day. Just swung by to invite you to my New Years Eve ball old boy. My wife sent your wife an invite but I do like to cross her Is and dot her Ts when I can. Women can be so forgetful. Bring Erik here too, why not? With a mouth like that, he's sure to be entertaining.''

Johnathan bowed again, a tacit dismissal, and then very pointedly retook his seat on the bench. ''I'll be sure to ask Mary if she recieved it. Good evening, Mr. Schmidt. Mr. Zell.''

Erik said nothing further, instead hoping his gaze would bore a hole into their respective backs as they walked up the steps and out of sight.

'' Dreadful, didn't I tell you? Two dreadful boors. I will not be going to that ball I can tell you! Oh to be sure my set will be there, in a frothy panic to stockpile their armories for when Napoleon marches into town with the guillotine, but I won't buy into it, no sir, not me. And the way he ispoke/i to you! Truly, there is no excuse, I am so-''

''No." Erik interrupted, and re-took his seat. The encounter had boiled his blood, but not only with anger. ''No John, you _will _go to that ball and so will I.''

If confusion were a scientific term, Erik could have looked up John's face in the primer. ''Why ever would we go? It will be torture!"

''What are guns made out of, John?''

''Er, metal? Have you gone funny?''

''And what are trains made out of, John?''

A beat, as understanding dawned bright in the holly colored eyes. ''Metal! Trains are made of metal! Are you thinking to-''

''Yes." Erik said, barely able to contain himself. ''We're going to poach his suppliers, his investors-everything. He's not going to make a bloody cent at this ball of his, or at any ball hereafter, because we're going to sell the rail road system and the Salamanca prototype like corner newsmen. Guns are all well and good, but once we explain how a train can get all their precious baubles and family heirlooms, not to mention their own hides, i_awayi _from Napoleon in record time? Well, they'll be throwing money at us.''

His cheeks were burning again, this time from excitement. He looked down at his signet ring, which had been in his family for generations, and rubbed his thumb across it tenderly. ''You know, my father was a great orator, before the Cossaks killed him. And my time so far in London has convinced me that we are indeed, standing on the fulcrum of the future. His lot, his game...that's the past. Let's show him, John. Let's conquer that Hanoverian bastard and build an empire.''

John, in one of his habitual buckings of propriety, wrapped him up in an earnest hug. ''God bless you man! I think I'm in love!''

Erik sincerely hoped not. They had far too much work to do together for that kind of distraction.

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx

**Tuesday, December the 31****st****, 1811  
Lady Fortune's Tea Room (Women Only) **

**Carey Street **

**11:30AM**

Raven adjusted an errant curl in her wig, and peered once again through her opera glasses out the window. ''Half an hour late. If she were an actress I'd have her tarred and feathered.''

Blink, who was reading a folio of Twelfth Night and practicing lines under her breath, rolled her eyes in her peripheral vision. ''We's fortunate then tha' she innt. Be patient, will yeh? S'not a walk in the park, what we asked 'er tah do.''

Raven put down her glasses in frustration; nothing. Merely an ostentatious carriage and liveries loitering on the cobblestones, no doubt waiting for the escort who rented them. ''She's a lady's maid, not the bloody queen. How many times can you fluff a bleeding pillow!?''

''Quite many time'' said a heavily accented voice behind her, and Raven nearly jumped out of her own skin. Before she could recover herself, a striking young woman with skin the color of chestnuts and eyes that were almost black appeared in her field of vision. She wore an emerald green day dress and plumes that matched the carriage liveries outside, but for all her finery she did not stand much on ceremony. She took the empty seat across from Raven without so much as a curtsey. ''My name is Angelica-eh, Angel. You English call to me 'Angel.' '' She said. ''I am to be late because I change in carriage. I not want any person to know these errands I do.''

Blink grinned from ear to ear, and nudged Raven on the shoulder in a mannish way. ''Wot'd I tell ya darlin? Angel's a top girl. Whose carriage is it this time, Dearie? An' are ya willin' tah share'im?''

Angel removed her black gloves, and placed them into her large carry-purse. ''Mister Bolivar is not for sharing.'' She said with a wicked grin. ''He is from home.''

Raven, finding the lack of manners contagious, let out a snort. ''No. I refuse to believe that you are lady's maid by day, Mistress to a revolutionary by night. It's too...Rococco.''

Angel shrugged. ''You to believe what you are wanting. In any case this is not why you call.''

Raven laughed. ''Fair enough, fair enough. Well did you manage it or not? Forgive my lack of niceties it's just that we're running out of time. You know how to keep a lady in suspense, even one used to fraught theater finales!''

Angel frowned, and addressed Blink. ''This one, she is talking too fast. But I do it. Mrs. Frost, she listen to me. She know me from before, when I to work in Mr. Schmidt's house of guns in Venezuela. She think I am good. She not know how I feel here.'' She pointed to her heart. ''She marry him after seeing his house of guns. She knows who he is. What he can do to people. Together they are like the ones who to buy and to...to give away for money, to sell! They are like the ones who buy and sell slaves.''

Raven nodded and considered. ''So we've solved the mystery of his base of operations, anyway. I'll have to tell Charles later.''

Angel continued. ''Anyway last week I asks her, 'Milady, what you will be to wearing for the feast of St. Sylvester? I will to get the valet to prepare accessories and Mr. Schmidt's things.' And she tell me easy, that it will be the all white gown down from America and the Heart of Ice.''

Blink plunked another lump of sugar in her tea. ''Haht of oyce indeed. Dunnt she wear tha' a' all 'ours?''

Angel smiled. ''This one, it is the ice of diamonds on a chain. When she show it to me, so I could to talk to the valet, I remember everything. I hide in the pantry and I draw it with a quill I to stole. Monsieur LeBeau said I was natural at drawing.''

Raven nodded bigly. ''So _he_ is the famed jeweler. Well that explains it. Leave it to a Frenchman to be so casual about deadlines.''

Angel reached into her carry-purse and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and a large parchment envelope. ''Do not to be hard on the Monsieur. He did good at his work. The necklace is exactly matching. She will never know for the rest of her wicked life, unless su hermano to ruin the job.''

Raven hid the parcel in the folds of her dress as if it were some scandalous artifact. ''He won't mess up. He's in his rooms practicing the routine now. They did consent to a magic show, did they not?''

Angel inclined her head. ''That, though more harder, will happen. Mrs. Frost she does not like silly shows, but Klaus to thinking it is a good idea. And when the head Butler is telling him Mister Xavier will be doing it, he is thinking that is very funny, and volunteered Mrs. Frost to being his assistant.'' Angel smirked. ''She not liking that very much, I can tell.''

Raven had to restrain herself from punching the air like one of Logan's oddsman when he landed one on the jaw. ''Oh our luck, our luck is sublime. The map and the X that marks treasure, all in one lah-dee-dah lady. I don't suppose this envelope is a fortune teller's prediction of riches and freedom?''

''No,'' Angel drawled. ''Only your invitation.''

Raven raised her eyebrows. ''Surely not! I haven't been allowed into any society apart from their husband's arseholes since before I came into acting! Has the good lady Frost hit her head or doesn't she comprehend that I'm the scandal of my debuting season?''

Blink laughed so hard that her face contorted until her tattooes crinkled into small points. ''Jolly well put.''

''They are not from London, you forget.'' Angel said. ''Maybe they are not having the 'ears' for your scandal. And you are a famous as well as...what is it the British say...as well as infamous, and so is your amigo the boxer. I am to thinking they are wanting to meet with the famous. It is what they define as 'risque.'''

Raven shrugged. "Goodness Blink, do you think I should wear my Mary Magdalene getup? They seem so set on fetishizing.''

''I think yeh should wear somthin'...inconspicuous,'' Blink said wisely.

Raven sighed, and began gathering her things. There was much yet to do, and Charles had intimated plans for her in his magic act. ''Funeral weeds it is then. And anyway, they'll get their comeuppance by the end of the evening.''


End file.
